Butch LaRue’s Guide to Etiquette
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So, for the most part, I’m a fairly laid-back guy. I don’t get riled easily and I can take the hits as well as I can give them. But sometimes, someone says something or does something and it just hits the wrong nerve. So, in the interest of helping people not get smashed in the face, I’m going to dedicate the next couple articles to helping people sort out those dilemmas of etiquette; when one should do something, or when they shouldn’t.
Today’s lesson is titled “Shut the fuck up.”
When you are out and about in your daily routine, do everyone a favor and shut the fuck up. Unless you’re asking directions, the time, or where I bought this awesome protective shell for my iPhone, nobody, and I mean NOBODY, wants to hear whatever the fuck you have to say. Freedom of speech applies to newspapers and the media, not you, Mr. Douchebag-who-wants-to-comment-on–my-fucking-Cubs-jersey. I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, and I don’t want to hear your opinion on baseball. Your clever quip about the World Series should earn you a fuckin’ cock-punch. But since I’m at work and you’re some fat fuck in a suit who I’ve never seen before, I have to chuckle and walk away. But now, I straight up fuckin hate you.
Right up to the moment you parted those gummy, jiz-stained lips of yours and decided to infect the air with your bilious, unoriginal drivel, you were just another guy on the street. Another human on the planet we are all forced to share. I would have held the door for you, or warned you if you left your briefcase on your car’s roof. But because you chose to speak, because you had to give me your fucking uninvited opinion, I wouldn’t piss in your mouth if your teeth were on fire. If you were drowning, I’d throw you a cinderblock. If I heard you fell off a fuckin’ cliff, broke both legs, and lay there crippled for four days until the coyotes finally found your fat, stinking body and tore you apart while you were still half conscious, I’d throw a fuckin’ party!
If you want so desperately to voice your opinion, that’s fine. Write a blog. Publish an online magazine. Or, like I have, get a Web site to actually PAY YOU to publish your opinions. That way, when I disagree with what you have to say, I will exercise my right to never read what you write ever again. But don’t fuckin bushwhack me on my way to the elevators, while I’m minding my own fuckin’ business, to give me shit about my favorite team in my own office, IN MY OWN FUCKING TOWN!!! So what that you’re an Expos fan! If they were that fuckin’ great, they should have figured out a way to get people to actually go to a fucking game! They had to move to Washington D.C. just to be the shittiest team in the National League. And by the way, you penis-gobbling assclown, they’re the Nationals now, not the fucking Expos.
The moral of this story, children, is that 99 times out of 100, whatever you say to a stranger will probably have a negative result. If everyone would just shut the fuck up, we wouldn’t have half the problems we do in this world. And I wouldn’t have to ask the security guard at the front desk if you work here so I can find your car and take a shit on your windshield.
